Date: Thu, 05 May 2016 17:26:52 +0000
From: Pilgrim <pilgrim566@ghostmail.com>
Subject: Pilgrimage of a Refugee 3

The usual disclaimers apply. I should say for reasons of disclosure that
this story is fictional. Also, don't do ecstasy in a sauna (seriously). As
always, I love getting emails from you horny bastards. Email me at:
pilgrim566@ghostmail.com

Please donate to Nifty!

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Swimming Lessons

Omar's a real bastard. Selfish enough to demand all he can get from the
want-to-help, yet smart enough to appear, always, on the 'right side of
history' (a phrase he's fond of using). In other words, he can be the most
morally indignant Muslim in a room if it suits. I never let him. I don't
think anyone who has been around genuinely manipulative people could. He
couldn't do most of what he pulls in Syria, in fact, but he gets away with
it all the time here because so many Europeans let him. He plays the devil
on stage and there's no one willing to point out the tail coming out of his
trousers.

He's been in Europe for around five years now, having walked through the
Balkans before Hungary set up its now neglected border fence and has
already been arrested several times. Four of those saw him sent to trial,
and once to prison (Lyon, 9 months) for a manifest of crimes including drug
manufacture and distribution of... certain indecent materials. By
constantly changing his name he's managed to avoid cumulative sentencing,
going now by the fake identity 'Yusuf' (though everyone he knows still
calls him Omar). That's Europe for you. They're meant to check for criminal
charges when hiring municipal workers, of course, but 'Yusuf' has never
done anything bad and has several glowing references from local politicians
and our mosque's imam. Omar, though? Let's just say you shouldn't trust him
with your kids.

He's a genius though, by erratic measure. The leisure centre is almost
entirely his. Since becoming manager he's filled the staff with his various
dealers and fellow refugees, all of whom are if not participants in his
activities at least tolerant of them. A good chemist, after all, can make
all the drugs he wants mostly from unsuspecting commercial pool chemicals,
and Omar's ecstasy and LSD are by far the best in Amsterdam, made right
under the authorities' noses in a locked basement complex.

His style of working is chaotic: 60 hour stints or more, where he's always
high on several substances needing to be tested by someone (it usually
falls to him, and he doesn't mind). He stands in the red-blue halogen
naked, trembling, jerking his dick in one hand with his other fondling some
beaker. Mules come and go in and out of the door, taking the product to
nightclubs in Czechia, Lombardy, Ibiza and of course the doorways of the
Red Light District -- anywhere, really, that they think they can sell
it. Dubstep plays nonstop at unhealthy decibels as he cums in the
mixture. But today he's not working. 'As you know, my work enables my art,'
he often says, smoking weed in the staff kitchen. 'The things Bernini did
for his art!'

But what do I do at work for work really? I can't get away with not working
at all, so I teach swimming lessons to kids a few hours a week. I'm pretty
good at it and the kids love me. But today I am teaching something else.

Omar starts the day getting high, popping a few pills before breakfast
(he's currently living with me because he's renting out his
government-provided flat on AirBnB, soaking up my internet speed, walking
around naked as usual). We go to work and he sends the few remaining Dutch
staff home. 'Sorry sorry,' he apologises, 'Pool is closed today, essential
maintenance, so there's not much for you to do.' But the pool isn't in fact
closed. Instead, he spends the next hour putting up signs, making sure his
network of hidden cameras is working and welcoming around twenty other
refugees (give or take several) he's invited the night before.

The signs say something along the lines of the following, in English and
Dutch:

	Due to the recent spate of incidents involving children... Adults
are banned from entering pool facilities for the time being.

This is an official sign from the City of Amsterdam, which is meant to be
used every Tuesday and Thursday during the school holidays when children
are taught swimming lessons. They can't ban the most likely culprits who
have been 'molesting' kids (refugees) for fear of appearing racist, so
instead ban all adults. Most of the time Omar doesn't bother to put them
up.

But by midday today there are a number of hand-picked and unsupervised boys
swimming in the kids pool, awaiting their lessons. The other refugees can
do what they want, by the looks of it mostly Africans, about eight Arabs
and a some Pakistanis. Me and Omar have for some weeks had our eyes on a
pair of blonde identical twins, both nine years old.

"Wow," says Henri, "I've never been in a steambox before."

"It's not a steambox dummy," Pierre replies, "They call it a sauna."

"Oh yeah? How do you know? Have you ever been in one?"

And so it goes. These two boys have French parents, who moved to Amsterdam
to follow creative careers in advertising. They live the lives typical of
European professionals: good food, good wine, and an abiding loyalty to
some left-wing party, whether Socialist or in this case the Green
Party. Their children are trilingual, in French, English and Dutch. Good
parents for me and Omar, because they refused to remove their children from
swimming lessons even when rumors started to crop up about an 'Islamist
takeover' (we're no Islamists) or 'drug den' (partially true) a couple of
months ago.

"Well kids, you know when you're in a sauna you have to take vitamins." He
smiles. "You know, to sweat it out." Omar hands them each a pill, with a
glass of water. They each take them without hesitation. "Now, if you get
thirsty, we've got lots of water in these bottles just here." As we go
inside, I look across the pool to see behind a partition wall one of the
Pakistanis fondling his hardening dick in front of a curious young -- too
young, really -- boy wearing green armbands.

But how could this happen? It isn't possible, you say. And truthfully, it
wouldn't be possible for you, but for refugees and migrants like me and
Omar it's a regular occurrence. Such things happened for decades among
immigrant communities in small towns like Rotherham in England, even before
the mass migrations of the past several years, and continue to happen now
in proportionally greater numbers.

Omar explains why we get away with it pretty well. The public servant,
whether policeman, judge or bureaucrat, is terrified of only one thing:
public outrage. Since they can lose their job from it, they'll do anything
to appear tolerant. Just one bigoted move can put them on the front pages
of some left-wing blog as a racist.

So they turn a blind eye out of fear. If that doesn't work, they fudge the
numbers to make it seem like the problem isn't as bad as it looks. They
acquit and drop charges. The greater number of refugees, too, means that
more tax dollars are sent straight into our pockets and away from law
enforcement. There are too many of us, in the end, to even try and stop
what's happening. When I first came to Europe, 2 million of us came in a
year. It's now 8 million to this month alone, mostly young men, all with
balls full of cum.

But is it bad for the kids? I don't think so. I've fucked hundreds of boys
since I came to Europe, and none of them have been 'psychologically
damaged' by the experience (though I can't say the same about their
assholes!). A man and a boy together is natural, and has been for most of
human history. Boys naturally like to play with their little dicks, and
explore ones that are bigger or have a different color or shape to their
own, especially those belonging to men that are stronger and more confident
than their effeminate fathers.

The real enemy, after all, is the modern European lifestyle. Materialism
plays a poor substitute for a wide network of intimate
relatives. Fortunately, racist parents are now starting to get the comeback
they deserve. Accusations that they throw against people like me can
justify the state taking away their children, putting them in homes of
refugees -- a program of what they call 'integration with tolerance' that
just means in practice a hell of a lot of fucking.

'Pierre...' Henri says, sitting on a lower bench between Omar's
feet. 'Pierre and me tried what you showed us, Mr Omar, in the dirty
video.'

Omar stretches back into the steam. 'Oh really? What did you do?'

Pierre is laughing. 'Don't tell them!'

'You shush,' Henri replies. 'You shush. You just don't like it 'cause you
took it.'

'Took what?' I ask, shuffling over to Henri.

'Pierre's my bitch,' Henri smirks, leaning back and imitating Omar by
rubbing his smooth boy-body, starting to shine now with steam and sweat. 'I
fuck him every night.'

'You do not!'

'Oh yeah I do! I'm stronger than you. Weakest takes it up the ass.'

'You aren't! I beat you at swimming lessons all the time...'

'Pierre's the better swimmer,' I say, undoing my towel. While I do so, both
Pierre and Henry are transfixed. They rush over, kneeling at my feet.

'Wow, wow!' They both say. 'How big is it? It's not even hard yet.'

'Can... can I touch it?' asks Pierre.

'I dunno,' says Omar, seemingly disinterested in the corner but actually
pumping his dick under his towel. 'Your parents might not like it.'

'Nah,' says Henri, 'They let us do anything.'

'I'm still not sure...'

'Oh come on, Mr. Omar,' says Pierre. 'Come on, let's take off our towels
too.' They both strip off and stand side by side, their cute little
boycocks nestled into their bunched up smooth balls. 'See, we have pretty
big ones too.' They both laugh.

'Oh is that right?' I ask. I see Omar out of the corner of my eye, the
horny fuck. He's dropped his towel at his feet and is already jerking off
(he does it about seventeen times a day, I swear, even on the bus and in
his sleep). Some of you may wonder what he looks like? Well he's skinny but
deceptively strong, having won a bronze medal for wrestling during his
conscription in the Syrian Army, and like most Arabs light brown and
hairy. Truthfully. I mean, he trims it all nicely, but he's still one hairy
guy. Kids don't seem to mind though: Arabs look great with hair. It's just
white guys that can't pull it off, I find. Plus, they don't much mind his
dark eight or so inch cock, either.

'Stop it,' Pierre laughs, as Omar begins to playfully smack his dick -- he
is circumcised, though I am not (long story), by the way -- on Pierre's
face (these kids are used to this grooming by now). 'Hey, what was in those
vitamins you gave us?'

'Why?' he asks, 'You feel funny?'

'Yeah...' Henri replies. 'I feel reeeaaaal good.'

'Huh, must have been out of date... You should both have some water,' he
hands them the bottles full of water, which they both unscrew and gulp
whole. 'I bet we can beat you both in wrestling.'

Henri looks nervously at both our dicks. Mine's now grown a little hard,
and is already approaching eight or nine inches.

'Sure,' says Pierre, licking his lips (effect of the drug?), 'I'll win no
problem.'

So we square off, me against Pierre and Henri against Omar, in the heat and
steam of the sauna. We both let Pierre and Omar think they're getting the
better of us, mock-struggling to crawl away. Just when they think they've
won, we flip their slippery bodies over on to the tiles, me straddling
Pierre's chest (not with my full weight, of course) and Omar, the horny
bastard, with Henri on his front and Omar's dick between his thighs. My
dick, meanwhile, is resting just beneath Pierre's chin, with all his
attention focused on it. I twitch it a few times and can feel his heartbeat
racing underneath.

Omar is pretty much thigh-fucking Henri at this point, pulling at the boy's
hair as he bites his ear. I see they're both sweating massively, and Henri
is moaning in pleasure like nothing else. I don't think I've ever heard
such noises from a boy, filled with pure lust, and it turns me on like
nothing else. When I think that we've turned these and hundreds of other
angelic little schoolboys (straight A-graders, winners of maths and science
competitions) into cumsluts in such a short period, that we've probably
turned them into bottoms for bare black and brown cock all their
lives... that is, when they get away from fucking each other long
enough... I can't help but want to face fuck the boy beneath me. And he is
more than willing, struggling against my grip, sure, but only so he can
grab my dick with both his hands and take my cockhead into his mouth. I can
hear, too, the grunts outside the sauna of the other refugees roughly
fucking their share. Not all of them, I'm certain, are as kind as me and
Omar. Even though all these boys know what they're getting into, I can't
help but think that most of these men wouldn't be above rape, especially
the Pakistanis and Afghans. But it doesn't matter too much. Once a kid's
taken his first dick, after all, he never regrets it.

Let me tell you about a boy's asshole -- it stretches. I've fucked a few
adults in my life, never with as much enjoyment as a boy, and their asses
don't stretch nearly as much. I think it's down to evolution: historically,
boys were fucked as a matter of course, since fucking girls could result in
pregnancy or destroy their father's honor. You took the adult dicks in your
tribe, and when you grew up you fucked the boys of the tribe in turn. So
naturally a boy's asshole stretches. That boys 'are too tight' is for most
part a lie, I find.

Still there are dicks and there is mine. Even if loose, a boy can't usually
take mine whole all at once (the Arab slut was an exception).  It requires
a bit of preparation. So while Omar shoves his dick with a little lube
whole into Henri's asshole (it looks like it hurts for a bit, but the
little fucker bites through the pain) and begins fucking him doggy-style at
one impressively rhythmic velocity -- and, man, you should see how hot it
looks from where I'm standing, with his brown hard straight dick plunging
deep into that smooth tight backside right up to Omar's thick pubes -- I
take my time, and do what my father showed me with those watermelons back
in the jungle.

I start by pulling my foreskin all the way back, and rubbing my precum
around Pierre's asshole, till it's glistening, then taking my dick in my
right hand, start to squeeze my dark cockhead inside. I should say at this
point, importantly, that I'm not fully hard (am only around nine inches)
and so my dick isn't nearly as long or as thick as it's going to be. I
slowly enter, feeling as the boy's ass stretches around my thick
dick. About halfway in I can't hold it anymore, as Pierre squirms
underneath me (the horny fucker's trying to get it deeper!). I let my
breathing go again, and my dick starts thickening, and thickening, until
I'm balls deep in this tight, eyes-squinted nine year old blonde fucktoy
with my dick at, what, eleven, twelve inches, thick as his wrist I can see,
and his thighs are stretched out around my waist. I lean in and start
fucking, slow at first, and he's gasping and squealing like the cute,
predestined bottom boyslut he is, my thick black cock deep in his white boy
ass and stretching obscenely at his pink asshole, just spread-out ready to
get fucked by a big African in the way his mummy and daddy never even
thought, imagined, he would or could. But he's mine now, and I lean down
over his body with my thick, bulky chest, over six foot tall to this small,
skinny little tyke with his faint outlines of a slim six-pack-to-be. I kiss
him, or more accurately fuck the insides of his mouth with my tongue.

And I start fucking him hard. Omar's been fucking Henri for a good five
minutes now (who's been reduced to moaning French argot) and has a lot more
hard fucking to do -- he has after all already cum several times this
morning -- and both our boys are squealing with pleasure, high as fuck on
ecstasy and drunk as skunks on sex. I lean back and watch as my dick goes
in and out of Pierre's asshole, curving as it goes in, coming out at
impossible lengths, till my cockhead is the only thing left in this
stretched boycunt, and then back in. And again, and again, and faster and
faster until we've fucked halfway across the room, and Pierre's pinned
against a bench, and I keep fucking him rougher and harder and faster, and
he's moaning so loud I'm sure it can be heard in the lobby by Omar's Dutch
junkie friends and I can feel the cum surging through my dick as I give one
last thick thrust into this drugged little kid, and he squeals, tightening
his legs around my neck, as I let my thick load out deep inside him.

When the twins' parents come to pick up their kids several hours later
they're dazed and sleepy in the office, coming down from the ecstasy Omar
gave them. They've already taken about seven more loads apiece in the mouth
and ass from the other refugees.

'Sorry we're late,' says mummy. 'We had a party meeting that ran overtime.'

'Will we see you there, next time, Omar?' asks daddy. 'We missed you
today. There's some very important changes about to come up in the party
policy about refugee matters, so you should be there. Don't worry about not
speaking Dutch, we have plenty of translators... My my, you're both very
sleepy!'

'They've been thoroughly worn out,' I say, 'Lots of exercise today!'

'Mummy,' Pierre yawns, 'Our swimming teacher has a really, really big black
dick.'

'Pierre!' mummy says, 'Don't you dare be racist. He's a very, very good
man, and we're very glad to have him here in the Netherlands.'

'But, but...' Pierre replies.

'Don't worry about that, mum,' I smile, 'These things go away with
time. You know what, why don't I take him and Henri to the mosque? We have
a great intercultural and interfaith program running right now, with plenty
of boys their age.'

'I see,' says daddy, 'Sounds very good. We'll send them over, Saturday, is
it?'

'Friday,' I reply, 'Our imam would be delighted to have more boys for his
seminars, as would the rest of the mosque. They could even learn some more
Arabic, Pashto, Farsi...'

'Sounds fantastic!' he replies, 'Friday it is.'

Once they have left Omar wanders over and gives me a nudge. 'I've got to
get to work processing the footage,' he says, 'But you're far worse, you
know, than I ever could be.'

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Don't do drugs kids!

Pilgrim